Bae's Day
by darcyfarrow
Summary: "You will call him Rumplestiltskin the Second. . . but never 'Rumpie.'" Take that, Blue Fairy; even the Dark One could bestow a blessing.


**A/N**: Although not my first fanfic, this story is my debut here.

**Disclaimer**: Alas, neither Rumplestiltskin nor _Once Upon a Time _is mine.

* * *

Today was Bae's Day. On this day, wherever he was—if he still lived—Bae turned twenty years old.

Rumplestiltskin's skin had been tingling all evening and his ears felt hot, but, however hard he listened, he couldn't pick up the call that was seeking him. Pity: he hated to lose an opportunity for a deal. He blew out his candle and sat down on his bed, enjoying the peace of a moonless night—except for that irksome tingling. He yawned and lay down.

"Rumplestiltskin."

He quieted his breathing.

"Rumplestiltskin."

A female voice, faint, pleading. Dying.

Now he could feel the waves of life radiating from her; cold, they were. Unusual; those who summoned him usually radiated heat. He lay completely still, taking them in, as weak as her voice. This one hadn't long left in the world. He rose and opened a window, leaning out, shutting out the songs of the night birds to listen to only this call.

His hands began to vibrate as the magic in him awoke. The voice was so weak he couldn't follow it, but the magic could. He closed his eyes and surrendered, and the magic transported him.

"Rumplestiltskin."

He could feel her now, close but soon to leave this plane. This was no time for a grand entrance or clever quips, so he approached quietly. He opened his eyes to find himself in a peasants' hovel, dank and dark with death. She lay on a pallet at his feet.

With a snap of his fingers he produced a lantern, which he set on a wobbly table. The light sufficient now, he knelt and peered at her. "I'm here, dearie," he said softly.

She fought for consciousness. He set a hand on her forehead, damp with a cold sweat. Her eyes flew open. "It's true. You heard me."

"Yes." He studied her: a peasant in blood-crusted dress and the loose skin of the long-starved.

"Stand back," she panted. "You'll get it too."

"I don't get sick." He conjured a cup of cool water and slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her to drink. When she'd taken all she could, he eased her into her blankets once again. "Are you alone here, dearie? Is there no one to help you?"

"Not alone." She stared him with fevered eyes and he wondered if she could see him clearly; she had so little strength left. "That's why I called you."

He hoped she wouldn't ask him to spare her life. Not even he, with six years of study in the mystical arts under his belt, could grant that request. The magic whispered to him, providing her name. "What would you have of me, Imeyene?"

"By the fire."

He glanced over his shoulder, seeking the hearth, which he assumed she wanted lit. And then he heard a snuffling, and he stood, perplexed, raising the lantern for a better view.

Close to the cold hearth he found a cradle—an occupied cradle. He set the lantern down to reach in, pull away the holey blanket. The cradle's occupant removed a much slobbered-upon fist from its mouth to babble at him.

Rumplestiltskin jerked back. Collecting his wits, he glanced back at the woman. "Where is the child's father?"

"Out there." She waved vaguely in the direction of a window.

"Where?"

"The graveyard."

"Is there no other family?"

"Bring him." She struggled to sit up.

A boy, then. Perhaps five or six months of age, and just as starved as his mother, Rumplestiltskin judged, lifting the infant. A pungent odor assaulted his nose. Rumplestiltskin took the easy path and with a snap of his fingers replaced the used nappy with a fresh one. He settled the baby against his shoulder. The slobbery fist seized a handful of Rumple's hair and the child tried to stuff the locks into his mouth. Rumple carried the baby to its mother.

"I can no longer feed him."

Rumple produced a cup of goat's milk and held it to the child's lips. He had to withdraw the cup several times to prevent the baby from choking in its desperation to drink.

The mother sighed, the breath of life escaping her. The magic told him she wouldn't last the hour. "Is there a friend, then?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"All fled to run from the fever." She stroked the child's cheek and called upon the last of her strength. "I want a deal."

"I'm sorry. It's beyond all magic."

"No, not for me. For him. A home, far from here. Parents who love him. Food." She drew herself up, pride straightening her shoulders. She stared him directly in the eye, daring him to refuse.

But the magic had its requirements. He had to ask, "And what have you to give me in return?"

Her eyes bore into him and the magic burned for release. "His name."

Rumple blinked: did she know she had just offered him power of the child? The magic pushed him to accept before she could change her mind. "Very well."

She raised the child, placing him in the imp's arms. "At his birth, he was named for his father." She lay back; her work finished, she could rest. "From today, he is to be called Rumplestiltskin."

The imp grunted. The woman had bound him: for the life of this child, he would be obligated to ensure his namesake's welfare. Good thing it was a human child: 60 or 70 years would bring the end to this obligation.

**1 Month Later**

He should never have accepted the deal. Not that the magic permitted him a choice. It had a mind of its own, and it wanted to be used, though he could resist if the item offered in trade was inadequate.

Said object at the moment slumped half-asleep in a sling hanging from—nothing, just air. The sling swayed gently. Even in his sleep the infant gnawed on his fist. No book in Rumple's vast collection provided advice on how to instruct a baby to break its bad habits, nor had Bae had such problems. The child was nothing like Bae.

Nor was he easy to trade. Rumple had ordered the magic to seek out candidates: parents who wished for a replacement for a lost or grown child, parents who couldn't produce offspring, even those who had plenty of heirs but an inclination for one more. When the tingling in his hands signaled him of a prospect, he examined the candidate closely, watching for hours through an enchanted mirror. A month had passed before he found a prospect worthy of a personal visit.

He returned disappointed.

Another month passed. Rumple had already tired of this unasked-for responsibility: the child tied him down, limited his travel, and that limited the deal-making, and that meant his magic went insufficiently used. His hands jittered as he fed the baby.

And still another month. And then one morning his ears burned with a call, and he knew without question the right deal had arrived. He set an enchanted mirror before the baby—a sort of monitor that would inform him if the boy awoke—and he paid his visit.

He heard them talking even before he materialized in their kitchen; they spoke of their fervent wish, which had gone unanswered for years, for a child. Side by side they worked, the man arranging small lumps of dough on a baking sheet, the woman cracking eggs into a crock. Wonderful smells surrounded them. Love surrounded them: he could hear it in their voices, see it in their hands as they accessed the magic of nature to create soft white rolls, sweet flaky pastries, fragrant loaves of bread. Their love was as sweet as their creations, and what's more, they shared their love with siblings and nephews and nieces and neighbors.

They had something worth trading, equal in value to his own offering. He presented his side of the bargain, allowing them a glimpse of the baby through a pie tin that he enchanted. The wife burst into tears. The husband's voice thickened as he said, "Please, we-" and then he could say no more.

"It's not something for nothing, dearies," Rumplestiltskin warned them. "You will attend to this child's every need—but not his every desire. You will protect him from harm, but do not protect him from the world, for he must be allowed to make his own way. You will educate him to the best of your ability, and when your ability is exceeded, you will seek others who can continue his education, for he must be taught, not to the limits of your ability, but to the limits of his."

"We would want no less for our child," the husband assured the imp.

"There is another condition, one imposed by his mother: he must be called Rumplestiltskin. And so that he is not confused with me and my business impeded by the confusion, you will call him Rumplestiltskin the Second."

"Yes," the wife said.

Rumple winced. "But never 'Rumpie.' That is _my_ condition."

"Never 'Rumpie.'"

"We are in agreement, then. And now, what have you to offer in payment?"

"Our bakery," the husband offered without hesitation. "We are not rich, but our bakery provides us a good living."

The wife interrupted. "That's not enough, Jacob. It's a child we're receiving." She looked the Dark One squarely in the eye. "This child will be called Rumplestiltskin, to fulfill his mother's wish; but when he becomes a man, _his_ child will be called Rumplestiltskin, and thus for the firstborn of each generation as long as our line continues."

The imp's mouth twitched in a lopsided grin. It was a most unusual offer. His hands tingled: the magic was satisfied with this price and eager for the deal to be struck. With a snap of his fingers he brought the baby from the castle, and threw in the magic sling as a parting gift for the baby. "I shall be watching," he warned, "and if you fail in any aspect of our agreement, I shall retrieve the merchandise." But he knew that wouldn't be necessary.

**100 Years Later**

As he had on this same day each year for the past century, Rumplestiltskin called upon his magic to take him from the comforts of his castle to an infant's bedside. He waited, silent and unperceived, in the shadows until the baby's mother retreated to her own bed. The woman settled beside her snoring husband; still Rumple waited until the life rhythms of the entire family slowed, assuring him they were asleep.

He advanced then, his mouth pulled in annoyance as a multitude of foul and sour odors assaulted his nose. The baby lay belly-down in its cradle. A string of drool stretched like a cobweb from a corner of its mouth to the cushion upon which the infant slept. Rumple wrinkled his nose. But he had a duty to perform, distasteful as it might be, so he knelt, setting a hesitant hand on the cradle as he waited for a reaction from the baby. When the child didn't stir, he moved his hand to its bald little head. He touched the child delicately, just enough to feel its warmth, just enough for the child to feel the magic flow from his fingers.

"A long and happy life to you, Rumplestiltskin the Fifth," he whispered. "And true love." In the cradle he set his first gift for this namesake: a cloth lamb that he had stitched with his own hand, no magic involved, as he had for the previous three infants. As he had for his own infant, two centuries before.

The duty completed, Rumplestiltskin the First rose and stepped back into the shadows. Silently he snorted. Take that, Blue Fairy; even the Dark One could bestow a blessing.

As he had for the other three—the most recent being this child's father—Rumplestiltskin would return to this child on this same night next year, and the year after, and so on, until Rumplestiltskin VI arrived, and each time he would bring a small, ordinary gift, a toy or a pair of shoes or a book.

Someday the line would end, and with it, his obligation. But that day was many lifetimes away. Their lifetimes, not his.

**200 Years Later**

This year, rain fell on Bae's Day, and Rumplestiltskin would have preferred to remain at his spinning wheel with a bright fire burning in the fireplace. The year had taken a toll on him; the seven months since Belle had gone had passed slowly. But he had never before failed in his obligation, so as the night fell, he drew on a warm cloak, tucked the gift into a pouch to protect it from the rain, and asked the magic to take him to his namesake's bedside.

Before allowing himself to enter the home, he paused outside, looking for signs of sleep. He had to tilt his head back to take the house fully into his sight. Rumplestiltskin IX—known (he shuddered at the thought) as "Rumpie"-had indeed done well for herself. Although hardly a castle, her home could be considered a significant, if not large, estate. Her father, an importer, had taught her his business, and under her steady hand it had taken root and blossomed. She had married well, a rare match of both money and love. And the firstborn of that union, a hardy boy, had arrived two months ago.

Not all of them had fared so well, of course. Rumplestiltskin III had taken to gambling and had perished under mysterious circumstances. Rumplestiltskin VIII had been born sickly and remained so throughout his brief time on earth—Rumple had foreseen the outcome from the moment he first lay his hand on the fitfully sleeping infant. The temptation to heal the child with magic nearly conquered his vow to remain distant. Each child must find its own way-Rumple had always adhered to that philosophy-but the frail tiny body struggling for breath caused his fingers to tingle with unused power, and he lifted his hand, calling forth the magic.

And then he lowered his hand again. He would honor his vow—a promise not as much to his namesakes as to his own child, now long gone. Each child would find its own way, for good or for ill. So each year on Bae's Day he brought magicless trinkets to the bedside of Rumplestiltskin VIII until, on the final visit, he brought a shroud he had woven himself.

Rumpie's large estate lay quiet, moonlight turning the raindrops into imitation diamonds as they cascaded down the windowpanes. She had exquisite taste, and such a bright one she was; in her seventh year he had brought her a chess set, and by age eleven she had repeatedly trounced every chess master in the kingdom. Each year when he visited her home he found evidence of the breadth of her curiosity, the depth of her intelligence, in the books she read, in the comments the villagers made about her.

He would have liked to have conversed with her, at least once. He even would have liked to have allowed her to know him, if not for the vow.

Satisfied that all within slept soundly, he entered the home, moving directly to the baby's room.

He had been deceived by his own senses.

He no sooner touched the baby's cradle than a door opened and a woman in white, bearing a tray, entered the room. He stepped backward, dropping the lamb, his traditional first gift, and raised his hand to summon the magic so he could make a hasty retreat, but the woman reached out to stay him. She set the tray down. "Please," she begged, "please don't go, Rumplestiltskin. Please stay just a few moments." The baby remained asleep.

Rumple's hand glowed.

"A deal," the woman offered. "Ten minutes of your time, in exchange for—" Her eyes cast about the dark room, seeking something to trade. Certainly, the room, the whole house, was well appointed with objects that would tempt anyone—except for one who could spin gold.

He hesitated. The magic wouldn't allow him to walk out without hearing the terms of a proposed deal. Truth be told, he probably would have stayed for just a few minutes regardless. He said nothing but studied her face, which betrayed no intent to trick him.

Rumpie suddenly grinned. "In exchange for a game, at a time and place of your choosing. Legend has it you're quite the chess player."

An answering grin tugged at his mouth. "Legends are often little more than very stale gossip, dearie."

"Will you make the deal?" she pressed.

"What's the harm," he murmured. "I haven't played against a master in decades. Ten minutes, and some evening when I'm bored, I'll return for a game."

"If you please, then—will you be seated?" She gestured to a well cushioned chair near the cradle, then turned to the tray, upon which awaited two tankards. "Will you join me in a buttered rum?"

Rumplestiltskin eased into the thickly cushioned chair and accepted the warm rum. On such a rainy night, those were fine gifts. He almost smiled. But no one sought him unless to ask for magic, so he watched her warily. "What do want of me, dearie?"

She knelt to stir the embers in the fireplace, and when she had brought a fire to life, and warmth and light filled the room, she stood and took down a leather-bound book from the mantle. With the book tucked under her arm, she drew a stool close to Rumplestiltskin's chair and seated herself. She sipped the rum before answering, "I want to thank you."

Rumplestiltskin nearly stuttered. "Thank me?" He could count on two fingers the times he had received thanks: once from Prince Charming, and once from his son's friend Morraine, on the day he lead the child-soldiers off the battlefield.

"You see, I remember," she said softly. "On this night twenty years ago, I awoke to a whisper. I pretended to remain asleep, but through the dark I glimpsed you, and I knew then my family's legend was no fable. I closed my eyes again and listened." She closed her eyes in memory. "'A long and happy life to you, Rumplestiltskin the Ninth, and true love.'" She opened her eyes. "And so when I learned my child was coming, I determined to watch for you, on the fourth day of the first month after harvest."

Rumpie ran her hand across the book's cover as if to smooth the leather. "This book contains my family's stories, as far back as we know them." Her eyes sparkled. "To Rumplestiltskin the Second. I should like for you to have it."

She set it in his lap, and unaware he was imitating her gesture, he too ran his hand across the leather.

"It's been a tradition—a command, really, passed down through each generation—to do our best with the skills each of us had, not just for our own family, but for our neighbors. Whatever each had to offer, each was obliged to give. And that's what this book is for. It's about this lineage: what we dared, how we succeeded, how we failed. And what we remembered of your visits."

She drew in a breath. "One morning, when I was eight years old, I awoke to find a book of empty pages on my pillow, and a quill. I worried for days about what had happened to those pages—where did the story go? And then my father helped me to understand that the pages were empty so I could fill them, and so I did.

"You know about us—my ancestors," she touched her chest. "You watched us grow. But how far the story reaches, you may not know." She reached across his lap and opened the book randomly. "Here. Rumplestiltskin the Fourth. She was a healer. During her time she birthed thirty-one children. When a pox spread across the kingdom, she ordered the sick to be housed apart from the healthy, and she cared for them. Some died, but some lived, and the pox died before it could spread farther. She chose to learn the healing arts when, as a small child, she awoke to find a pestle and mortar on her pillow."

She turned another page. "Rumplestiltskin the Second was a grower: he found a way to bring water from the mountains when drought struck. His crops fed the village."

In a low voice, Rumplestiltskin counted the time. "Five minutes, child."

She turned another page. "It's said that Rumplestiltskin the Sixth's puddings saved the kingdom. A wizard in the kitchen, everyone said. He came to work for King Gladwin. When the king's daughter married, royalty from all the land came for the wedding. King Terric of Tellos came, and he was so impressed with the cooking that he remained for seven days. Over the wine and the food, King Gladwin and King Terric became friends, and so when Ogres attacked our realm, King Terric sent all his troops to aid us, and the Ogres retreated."

She turned another page. "My grandmother, Rumplestiltskin the Seventh. From the time she was four years of age, until the birth of her first child, on the same day each year—the fourth day of the first month after harvest—she received gifts of books. Books of all kinds: legends of great rulers, histories, reports of strange lands, poems. When she reached her majority she used these books to start a school for laborers' children. King Gladwin opposed it, out of fear the laborers would acquire ambitions beyond their station, but because of the favor he owed her father, he allowed my grandmother to continue her work. Two generations of children have learned their letters and their sums there."

Rumpie closed the book and sat back. "When you made that deal with Imeyene, it wasn't for one baby. It was for a village." Her eyes danced as she sipped her rum.

"Two minutes," Rumplestiltskin reported. "What was done with the trinkets I left is of no consequence. Each child found his own way."

"You set some of us on our paths." She leaned forward to peer at him. "Besides, if you hadn't accepted that first deal, none of my family would have existed to do what we have done."

She rose, bent over the cradle, and lifted her baby. She kissed the infant's pudgy cheek, then presented the child to Rumplestiltskin. "Soldier or tinker or merchant or baker, whatever he becomes, he has a heritage and an obligation, and I ask your blessing for him."

Rumplestiltskin drew back. "I think you mistake me, dearie. I'm no fairy."

"No, but you made a deal."

He accepted the baby into his arms for just the moment it took to whisper the required words. The baby awoke and fussed; he hastily returned it to its mother. With a final gulp of rum, he tucked the book under his arm and rose. "Ten minutes have passed. I'll return one day for our game." He raised his hand, preparing to leave, but something made him hesitate. He gave them a quick final glance, and then he added, "Thank you."


End file.
